Out of a Nigerian Slum, a Poet Is BornNigerian poet and activist Aj Dagga Tolar lives in a shack in Ajegunle, a slum on the outskirts of Lagos that is also called "The Jungle." He says he tries to escape the tough reality of slum life by being creative, making music and poetry.

Poet, musician and activist Aj Dagga Tolar sits in his tiny shack in Ajegunle, a slum in Lagos, Nigeria. His poetry and music address the inequalities faced by the residents of the slum.
Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, NPR
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Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, NPR

Poet, musician and activist Aj Dagga Tolar sits in his tiny shack in Ajegunle, a slum in Lagos, Nigeria. His poetry and music address the inequalities faced by the residents of the slum.

A dirt road in Ajegunle. The slum is home to about 5 million people, including Dagga Tolar.
Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, NPR
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Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, NPR

A dirt road in Ajegunle. The slum is home to about 5 million people, including Dagga Tolar.

Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, NPR

Ajegunle, a sprawling slum of about 5 million residents on the outskirts of Lagos, Nigeria's noisy and chaotic commercial capital, has a notorious reputation. Its ominous nickname is "The Jungle." Yet it represents a microcosm of Africa's most populous nation, juggling Nigeria's diverse religions and ethnic and regional groups.

It also has some unexpected gems, including Aj Dagga Tolar, a Rastafarian poet and reggae musician who was born in Ajegunle, also called "The Jungle."

The slum greets visitors with a medley of odors — the smell of heaps of garbage and gutters, open sewage channels running between the tightly packed structures — and a symphony of sounds. Traditional juju music blares from a tinny loudspeaker, precariously perched in one of the tiny shops, while on the other side of the narrow, dusty dirt street, the voice of a muezzin floats out of a mosque. Also audible are the generators, ubiquitous in Nigeria, where endemic corruption has eaten into the nation's infrastructure and resulted in frequent power outages.

"It's one of the most popular slums, not just on the African continent, but the entire part of the world. It is in this part of the country that you meet the poor of the poorest, and we try to survive day in and day out," Dagga Tolar says.

It would be hard to miss Dagga Tolar in a crowd. Approaching 40, the poet, singer and activist is lanky, with distinctive, giant dreadlocks crowning his head, eyes eager and searching and a big, welcoming, gap-toothed smile. He has the look of a survivor.

He lives in a tiny shack with brightly painted blue walls. On the floor is a bare mattress. Everywhere you look, the room is crammed with CDs and books — from classics to poetry to political essays on poverty and survival. On one side is a poster of the late American rapper, Tupac Shakur.

Dagga Tolar says he feels fortunate to have a roof over his head — and it's one that he readily shares.

"If you had come here early in the morning, you would meet with about four or five persons who stay around, who of course don't have another alternative," he says.

"Ajegunle is called 'The Jungle' because it's extremely difficult to survive in this neighborhood. And people survive day to day on nothing, on practically nothing," he says. "Ajegunle has become a metaphor for the entirety of the Nigerian nation. Ajegunle is no longer special; it's a portrayal of what the whole country is: one big jungle city. And it portrays the picture of the ... angriest sections of the working population residing in this part of the country."

The people of Ajegunle are angry about poverty — no electricity, no water, no prospects, no future and, for many, no hope. And this is in Nigeria, the giant of West Africa, the continent's top petroleum exporter and a major crude-oil supplier to the United States. But in Nigeria, corruption is rife, and the rich are very rich, while the poor are very poor.

Dagga Tolar writes poetry and sings about such inequalities.

"Killing, you are killing our dreams, in every way and every day," he sings. He continues in spoken word: "And every time we find a way, they come around against us, because they don't want to pay, for the suffering and fighting every day that the people have to face in every way. And when we stand, the fire burn we body, for we can no longer hear the sound of melody. We are one people."

Dagga Tolar says he tries to escape the tough reality of slum life in Nigeria by being creative.

Excerpt: 'This Country is Not a Poem'

This country is a poemIs only for the heart to lieTo make Art no dieThis country, no be placeFor human facesTo live to love this countryNa just like spaceFor all of us to dey dieMy heart no go greee mek Art dey lieThis country is not a poem

The way they make poetryTo make this countrySound good to the earBut here who caresThe death of a dirty lie on the lipsBefore the words dried out to dieThis country

Who caresFor the poetry of our existenceThe way they care for poetryLeaving us every moment with metaphorsTo feel not at all the failing of poetry

This countryDare you to ask"Have you seen dead bodies before?"Answer with another ask"Are there not dead bodies everywhere?"

Stuff enough to make more poemsWho cares to hearLagos is a poem, not a placeAjegunle is a poem, not a placeCannot sit to hear this poem

For a people mugged down in mudEvery breath a struggle to keepThe breath like that of animalsHumans lost all life...like HannibalDesecrate the place unfit for Villa and ZapataHang the statue in the squareThis is the sad end of Saddam's storyStill alive savouring life on

Like Bush the liar unable to BlairThe people not to see their landTheir oil still flowing into wrong pocketsGuns boomed, they die to be able to killMy heart is pained say no be demBut the innocent young ones of mothersLike our own mothersCut down to weep dry tearsFor lost sons

This is the common end of hopeStringed on the guns of anotherFrom across the borderlineWho also like them heed only onto profitFrom our dyingIf then we free to fightThis country into a poemArt first must be rid of liesFor only then can hearts crave to dieFor the peopleFor a new poemFor a new countryNot this stiff old song of profitMaking this country is not a poem

This country is a poemIs only for the heart to lieTo make Art no dieThis country, no be placeFor human facesTo live to love This countryNa just like spaceFor all of us to dey dieMy heart no go greee make Art dey lieThis country is not a poem